Out of the Frying Pan
by mossley
Summary: Despite decades of friendship, there's a limit to what Dr. Crusher is willing to do for Captain Picard. Just a bit of fluff.


**Out of the Frying Pan  
Summary:** Despite decades of friendship, there's a limit to what Dr. Crusher is willing to do for Captain Picard.**  
A/N:** This is another story from my Christmas giveaway; Elfling65 provided the opening and closing lines for this one. Thanks to VR Trakowski for looking this over for me, but all the typos are mine.**  
Rating: **PG**  
Disclaimer: **If I owned anything vaguely related to Star Trek, I wouldn't be driving a ten-year-old car.

* * *

"Jean Luc, you don't really expect me to touch that!"

Captain Picard paused at the replicator, looking over his shoulder with a puzzled expression. There had been problems with the replicators earlier in the week, but Geordie had assured him that had been resolved. Besides, nothing had oozed off the plate on its own accord, so he was fairly certain that particular bug hadn't sprung up again. However, his dining companion sounded decidedly put out.

"What's wrong, Beverly?"

"_This_," she said dramatically, poking at the item on her plate.

"_That_ would be dinner."

"You invited me over for dinner, right? I know I've been working around the clock lately, but I'm pretty certain you came into Sickbay and practically ordered me to get, and I quote, 'A real meal.' So where is it?"

"I seem to recall you saying you were in a hurry, so I ordered sandwiches. Would you like pommes frites with that?"

When she shook her head, he grabbed their drinks and started to cross his quarters. The doctor continued to stare at her dinner, a move that stumped Picard. While she preferred simple, classic dishes, she wasn't afraid to try new things. It was a relic of her childhood on the doomed colony of Arvada III where the surviving colonists ate anything that wasn't toxic.

"I'll have you know that's a classic French dish," he told her when she made no move to start eating.

Crusher examined her plate before looking up at Picard skeptically. "Really? Was it fed to prisoners in the Bastille? Or Devil's Island?"

Laughing, Picard handed her a glass and sat down. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure when it first appeared."

"There's something about French culture you don't know?" she teased.

"Shocking, I know," he replied dryly. "The origins of the dish were lost after the Eugenics Wars and World War III, but it is known that there were establishments in major French cities that specialized in this dish by the end of the twentieth century."

"This is payback, isn't it?"

"Whatever for?"

"I have no idea," she said with an exaggerated sigh. "But you're out to get me for something."

"Nonsense, Beverly," Picard said. "You've been so busy with the outbreak on K'roc that you haven't been taking time for meals. You deserve a break today."

"What are you trying to break? My resolve or my digestive system?"

"Beverly," he said in mock-exasperation. "It's not like I'm asking you to eat gagh."

Crusher removed the top from her sandwich and eyed him doubtfully. "If you say so."

Picard started nibbling his pommes frites, frowning as she continued to examine her sandwich critically. "It's made from beef, Dr. Crusher, so there's no need to perform a necropsy. It's not like you to be afraid of a simple sandwich. I never suspected you were a finicky eater."

"I am _not_ finicky. I do have standards, though."

"You'll notice that I haven't dropped dead as of yet, so I think you can safely assume it's edible."

"Assumptions are dangerous things."

"Some historians believe it may have Scottish roots," he said temptingly, hoping the connection to her family origins would entice her to at least taste it.

"You know, I spent a lot of time on Caldos II, and it's more Scottish than Scotland. You wouldn't find anything like this there."

"Well, the person who introduced it to France was of Scottish origin." He paused in eating his sandwich when she smirked at him. "His name was on all the restaurants."

"Jean-Luc, I spent enough time on the North American continent to know what this is," she said, poking her sandwich in contempt. "It's a cheeseburger. There's nothing French about it."

"My mother used to make it for me all the time when I was a boy."

"That doesn't make the dish itself French."

"My mother was an acknowledged expert on pre-war French cuisine. She had to do an incredible amount of research to discover the recipe," he said in all seriousness. "It's a Royale Cheese."

"That should be your first clue. 'Cheese' in the name of a French dish? And I have eaten cheese on a number of planets, and nowhere in the known universe is it that color of orange. It's not natural."

"I think perhaps you should check your blood-sugar level, Doctor. You're very ... cranky today," he replied, only half-jokingly.

"I know," she said, pushing her plate away from her. "I don't mean to be ungrateful, but I hate those things."

"Really?"

"My grandmother never got the hang of making them. Her burgers were dried out and greasy at the same time. I never wanted to hurt her feelings, so I never told her how horrible they were."

"Shall I have Data check the databanks to find out if Star Fleet used Felisa's recipe when they programmed the replicator?"

"That wouldn't be a bad idea," Crusher said, laughing lightly when he stared at her. "I used her recipe for the haggis."

"Ah, yes. Haggis. A dish, if I remember correctly, that you served to me the first time Jack invited me to your house for dinner."

Beverly didn't try to hide her laughter. "That was Jack's idea of a joke. We never expected you would actually eat it. I had a backup dinner in the stasis unit."

Picard's hand froze halfway to his mouth, and he sat staring at her for a moment. "Now you tell me. _That_ was an unpleasant meal. The company was enjoyable, though," he added quickly.

Smiling at the memory, she leaned forward in her chair. "You blanched so badly after your first taste of mashed turnips, I thought I was going to have to treat you. I figured the haggis would have been what did you in."

"It was easier to pretend to be ignorant of what was in the haggis than to ignore the taste of the turnips," Picard quipped. "Another of Felisa's recipes?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. She was a decent cook _..._ just not when it came to cheeseburgers. I don't think the cat would even touch them."

Picard held off his response when a page came for Crusher from Sick Bay.

"I have to run. Thanks for dinner," she said dryly.

"Even doctors need to replenish their reserves on occasion, Dr. Crusher," he said formally.

"I'll grab something in Sick Bay."

"If you had done that, I wouldn't have had to call you away to get something to eat. You've been pushing yourself too hard. You know better than anyone what happens to the body when it's denied nourishment and put under stressful conditions," he pointed out as he wrapped her untouched sandwich in a napkin. "Have it to go."

Beverly shook her head as she backed out of the room. "I'm a doctor, but that's asking too much!"

**The End**


End file.
